“I had a nightmare,” I whisper.
He brushes his hand up and down my arm, small, grounding movements. “Do you want to tell me?”
I hesitate. The images flicker back, unwanted. White walls. Silence. The feeling of being watched and judged and found wanting.
“About the pregnancy,” I say finally. “About what happens when the baby’s here.”
He doesn’t interrupt. Doesn’t reassure. Doesn’t rush in to fix it.
So I keep going.
“I dreamt I couldn’t do it,” I say, voice low. “That I was doing everything wrong. That everyone else knew what they were doing and I didn’t. That I was already failing before it even started.”
His hand stills briefly, then continues, steady as ever.
“That sounds terrifying,” he says quietly.
The simplicity of it almost undoes me.
“I woke up and my heart wouldn’t slow down,” I admit. “And all I could think was, what if I can’t do this? What if I’m not enough?”
He shifts slightly so I’m more comfortable, my cheek pressed over his heart, the rhythm strong and sure beneath my ear.
“You don’t have to be anything right now,” he says. “You don’t have to solve the future at two in the morning.”
I let out a shaky breath. “I’m scared.”
“I know,” he says.
No judgement. No dismissal. Just acknowledgement.
We lie there in the dark, his hand moving in slow circles on my back, my breathing gradually syncing with his. The fear doesn’t vanish, but it softens, like it’s been seen and decided to quiet down for a while.
“I’m here,” he adds after a moment. Not dramatic. Not promised. Just true.
I nod against his chest, eyes finally closing, my body unclenching inch by inch.
Geoff exhales softly above me.
“This is probably my mum’s fault,” he murmurs. “All that advice. She’s very thorough. You’ve been emotionally assessed, nutritionally audited, and gently scolded.”
I snort, the sound muffled against him.
“I’m serious,” he says, voice warm now, half-smiling. “She does this thing where she asks sensible questions and, suddenly, you’re reconsidering your entire life at midnight.”
I lift my head just enough to look at him in the dark. “I love your mum.”
He huffs a laugh. “Of course you do. Everyone does. It’s deeply inconvenient.”
“She’s kind,” I say quietly. “And loud. And bossy in a way that feels like being wrapped in a blanket.”
“She weaponises care,” he agrees.
I settle back against him, fingers curling lightly into his T-shirt. “She made me feel like this wasn’t something I had to do perfectly. Just… do.”
He goes still for a second, then his arm tightens around me, just a fraction.
“That’s her,” he says. “She has a very specific talent for cutting through nonsense.”
